Fix You
by BookCaseGirl
Summary: Someone fron the 'Four Musketeers' dies in a car crash. How will this affect the relationship of Chuck and Blair? Severe, I repeat, severe ANGST.


**JUST A QUICK NOTE HERE: I was conflicted on what rating to put this under. I'm just rating it T, but beware, there are a few things that could be considered inappropriate for people under the age of 13.**

**A/N: **Another story! Two chapter and then this! I seriously must be addicted to writing! But, someone, who will remain nameless, **coughcough** Michelle, has caused an overwhelming amount of angst to invade my life. So, I am trying to dispel that in this. We shall see if I can rid of it... If not, expect more ;)

Thanks to Michelle for beta-ing this. You rock :)

P.S.: Still not the owner of Gossip Girl. Shut up about it, alright?

_Fix You_

I want to try and fix him, but he's just broken beyond repair now. First his dad, then this. Honestly, I don't know what to do any longer. He's even more vacant now than he's ever been, and he's not even taking drugs.

It's all the scotch. He has more than fifteen glasses a day. It scares me, it really does. Sometimes I'm afraid that I will go up to his room, doing my routine check, and find him, completely lifeless. That he'll have a sparkling glass bottle cuddled into his side, where I should be.

I don't want to know what he's going through first-hand, but I need to know it pretty damn well in order for me to fix him. However, I do know some of what he's going through.

We'd both known him since the diaper days. He was so full of life and vibrant. He always added a comical air to anything sour between the two. Leave it to Nate Archibald to lighten the mood.

It had been so sudden. He was with Vanessa, on the way back from a play, when the Cadillac Escalade came straight for them at full speed. Both were killed. Chuck was terrified as he took in the sight of them at the hospital.

He had been whispering things to Nate, telling him that he would be fine. Assuring the boy that he would live. And, hours later, when things got worse, pleading for him to live. Nate needed to stay alive for Chuck. Chuck couldn't live without him.

"_Nate! Please! You can't do this, man! You just can't..." Chuck's voice trailed off and he let out a strangled sob._

I still remember his voice as clear as if I were back there. I feel his tears on my hands as if I'm still wiping them away. I suppose that, in a way, I am. Figuratively, that is. He was so broken when Nate flat-lined.

He had fallen to the floor, utterly devastated and convulsing in ways that were not normal under any circumstances. After ten minutes of that, he just stopped. Chuck stopped everything. He wouldn't talk to me at all. He just stared into space and let me drag him back into his limo.

I had tried to comfort him and console him in the limo. I tried witty remarks about the many times in the limo that we'd had together. I even resorted to kissing him, thinking maybe sex would be the cure. His lips were like putty in mine, though. They simply melded and shaped along with my lips. There was no voluntary effort.

That first night he had just gone to bed. I allowed it; I wasn't sure what else to do. His father, I could deal with that. But Nate; he was Chuck's best friend. It was someone who couldn't be replaced. He had been Chuck's one and only true friend. I didn't count; I was his love, though he had yet to admit it.

The next night was when all the drama started. Without consent, my memories are flooding back to me.

"_Bass,"_ _I crooned as soon as I'd come through the door. "Rise and shine, buddy. It's time for dinner."_

_I found him laying on the sofa, robe in disarray on his body, staring at the ceiling. The ever-present glass of scotch was in his hand, and there was a bottle on the table that looked like it had a mere drop or two left._

_I rushed over to him immediately and took the glass away. He was unresponsive and wouldn't meet my eyes. I gasped as I saw the cuts on his hands. I turned them around and the small slashes were dangerously close to his wrists. _

"_Chuck, what did you do? What the hell?" I whispered frantically at him. He let out a sigh of exhaustion and boredom. I was instantly reminded of the day that I had gone to Victrola and he had been so unyieldingly rude._

_He finally spoke. And his voice had an eerie whisper to it. It was the Chuck Bass leering whisper. It was ghostlike and terrifying to me._

"_Just leave, Blair. Let me be." He pulled away from me, but as soon as I realized what he was doing, I latched onto him again. I held him steady and completely still. He stiffened in my arms and finally met my eyes._

_To my surprise, his pupils were not dilated. He looked completely normal. Scratch that- he looked as normal as someone who had lost their friend a day before could. Then I saw the tears, as well as the red puffiness under where they fell from. He looked so small to me and all I wanted to do was make him happy. I didn't care what it took._

"_No," I stated firmly. "Tell me what you need. Tell me how to fix this, how to fix you." I bru__shed the bangs of his badly-in-need-of-a-cutting hair from his eyes so I could bore into his glassy globes._

_As his lips met mine, fervent and needy, I permitted what was happening. If this was what he needed, I would let it happen. Although it wasn't sweet and kind as our first time after many months should have been, I simply followed his movements and did as he wordlessly said. _

_Chuck pushed me back onto the bed and he already had slipped his silken robe off of his body. He roughly tore my skirt down, not caring that he wrecked the zipper of it. He tore down the panties that were under it and thrust into me. There was no kissing; there were not any loving caresses. He hadn't even bothered to take off my blouse or bra and fondle my breasts._

_He came fast and the warmness seeped into me. I did not come, though. There wasn't one bit of pleasure in this for me. It was a mere dealing of business. I was trying to fix him. He had told me that this was what had to be done to fix him._

_When he was next to me in the bed, I just stared up at the ceiling, breathing steadily. He still said not one word, just stayed as far on his side of the bed as he could. Then, he got up and went to the bar. I instantaneously sat up and watched him._

_He came back with a brand new bottle of scotch. He chugged it until there was only half a bottle left and then raised it in a silent toast to me, smirking drunkenly. I shook my head at him, completely disbelieving, and grabbed my panties and skirt off of the floor._

_I went into his bathroom and it smelled distinctly of vomit. He must not have been able to hold his liquor at first. I slipped my panties on and found a safety pin for my skirt in the upper left drawer. As soon as I felt that I was presentable, I strode out of the bathroom. _

_When I walked back to his bedroom to bite out a sassy and snide semblance to a 'goodbye', I found him in the same position. I let out a strangled sob, the tears not coming right then. Walking over to the bed, I drew the covers up over him and pried the glass out of his hand's death grip._

_Without one glance back, I left._

I shake myself out of my reverie, trying to get back to reality. It is day twenty five of project "Fix the Basshole" and by now, I'm ready to do anything. No matter what I try, nothing can bring him out of his angst-ridden funk.

He's drunk every time I make a trip over there now. He's always swaying to booming music coming from his computer, or he's stumbling around, yelling incoherences for the whole world to hear.

This time, though, things are different. There is a tangible fluctuation in mood as soon as I step through the door. I only smell one thing: blood. I run into the living room, and find him on the floor. There is no scotch anywhere near him and the entire hotel room is disastrous.

When I kneel next to him, he only utters the following. "I just want to be with him again. Please, Blair, please help me."

Perhaps it was the pleads in his voice, or maybe that look in his eyes that told me this was the way to fix him. I did it, though.

Before I do, I want to convince him that this is wrong. It's not the right decision for him.

"Chuck, no. I can't do this to you, don't you understand that? You have to be able to understand me, sweetie." Now is the only time I've ever used a pet name when speaking with him, but, as I see his face register, I can tell it makes a difference. I am able to tell that I made the smallest of dents.

But then I look around the room and see that even though those words are helping in a small way, they aren't helping enough. There is blood spattered over the bar and on the armchair in the corner. Red spots even cover the entertainment center and are flicked onto the screen of his plasma television.

And then there's Chuck. He looks as distraught as ever, and his eyes are boring into mine, pleading silently. He doesn't seem to have the strength to converse anymore.

There are pools of crimson liquid around him and his wrists spill out even more. I gulp back tears at this visual. Its something I never thought I would have to experience. I never could have imagined that the high and mighty _Chuck_ _Bass_ would ever have been capable of this.

With one of his last breaths, he rasps out to me, clutching at my shoulders.

"I need you to understand," he swallows and shuts his eyes tightly in pain. "That you are one of the few people I ever loved. I never told you, but I always have, Blair. I always have. If you love me, you'll help me finish this."

After he says this, I cry out in agony. The tears are streaming freely down my face now and I am outwardly gasping and sobbing as he gives me the knife. My hand shakes as I hold it and I try to steady it.

I am scared by the fact that he looks so calm as I bring the knife down. His eyes close and he lets out a slow breath. I start to press the sharp point into the left side of his upper torso and notice he is beginning to shake slightly, possibly from blood loss. His face is so pale, and I know deep down that this is a memory I will never be able to banish away.

As it goes into his chest slowly, I realize, the faster the better. The last thing I want to do is cause him pain in the last few seconds of his life. I plunge the silver down through his chest and scream, letting out more tears.

Chuck gasps and his eyes shoot open. Then, nothing. The only sound in the room is my heavy breathing and sobs. There is no longer the sound of another's breath coming out in short gasps. I pull out the knife and am surprised at how clean the wound of my dead love's death is. I set the knife on the ground and sit there, looking at him.

"Chuck," I whisper. I run my fingers along the very edge of his face and am heartbroken when there is now response. My sobs quicken slightly and I know what _I_ have to do now.

I grab the knife, and, without one more thought, lay down next to him. Normally, the blood seeping through my back would frighten me and thoroughly disgust me. I raise the knife above me and position it in the most accurate place I can. I slowly lower it and take one deep breath, letting it plunge down into my own heart.

The last thing I remember was the sound of my own choking as blood came spouting from my throat. After that, I saw the glowing gates that led to the love of my life.

A/N:Alright, everyone. I feel as if I may have gotten rid of a great deal of my angst through this. After all, its _so_ depressing! I hope that you did like it in a sick/twisted way, though. I should be writing a new chapter soon, like tonight, and I'll get it up ASAP. Also, not sure if the ending's good. If not, please don't rub it in too much. I had quite a bit of trouble :P.

Also... any requests for oneshots? Lemme know!


End file.
